


Time In Chains

by AnOddSock



Series: Better Together [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Blindfolds, Bondage, Cock & Ball Torture, Cock Rings, Dean Has a Bad Day, Forced Orgasm, Forced Submission, Gags, Hand Feeding, Humiliation, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Kneeling, M/M, Nipple Torture, Non-Consensual Bondage, Predicament Bondage, Prostate Massage, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual Slavery, Slave Dean, Spreader Bars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13509171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/pseuds/AnOddSock
Summary: This is part of what Dean hates most. The choice.He knows they watch and measure, taking notes on how he reacts, what he chooses. Seeing which things get to him the most. They’re making a big damn list of all of his most easily opened wounds - so they can break him down more easily.And it’s working.





	Time In Chains

Dean leans against the wall of his cell. He tries to think of it as a cell, not his room, he’s not here by choice - there's a collar around his neck to prove it - so it’s definitely a prison. He’s still laced into the sleeve he was put in this morning, arms cinched tight behind his back. He rolls his shoulders as much as possible and shifts his weight to avoid getting a numb butt cheek.

He curled himself into the corner once they left after his morning training. Angled away from the camera he knows is there, always watching, gives him an illusion of privacy. Which he knows is silly as he’s naked, bound, and waiting to be tortured again, but he’ll take what he can.

There’s nothing to distract himself from the gnawing nerves of waiting to see what they have planned next. White walls and a white padded floor - perfect for kneeling on for long lengths of time without causing injury. There are rings secured into the walls and floor at intervals, precise distances and heights make it easy to tie him down in all manner of ways. He skirts his eyes around the room not wanting to see, or remember, but they’re the only thing breaking up the monotony of the brightly lit space.

Dean jumps when the door opens, turns quickly to see who comes in. He struggles to remember the trainers from one day to the next. He’s never seen the same person two days in a row and they all blur together.  
There are two people here now, both men, and they carry a small case with them. Dean swallows hard.

He struggles to his feet using the wall as leverage. They don’t even look at him.  
“Over here,” one of them points to a very specific spot on the floor.  
“What are you,” Dean stops, wanting to use the right words so he doesn’t end up being hurt more than necessary. “Can you tell me what you’re going to do?”

“You’ll find out in a moment, now come here.”

Some days he fights, forces them to drag him into position and hold him down. Today isn’t one of those days. He knows when he’s had enough and he doesn’t want an extra beat down.  
He takes halting steps forward, “Any chance these are coming off?” he asks the room at large, half turning to offer his bound arms.

The older of the two men swivels to look at Dean and Dean immediately lowers his gaze, no point making them angry.

“You are chatty today. I think we’ll need to put an end to that. You don’t need to know what’s going to happen, you just need to learn from it. Now, kneel here.”  
He’s directed to kneel about three feet from the far wall, body parallel to the door, facing towards the cameras embedded in the wall and ceiling.

Dean has no idea what he’s supposed to learn, they don’t tell him what they expect and haven’t taught him to behave differently. It’s only ever been punishing scenarios and torturous session with no explanations. When he was sold to this facility he expected it be different than this, and now he’s here with no way out, his only option to survive through it.

They check the laces on the sleeves first, and Dean feels it loosen a tiny amount before the laces are tied off again. It gives him a little more room to breathe, which is good, but makes him nervous. They want him comfortable - or less constricted anyway - which he’s learned means a long session. Dean almost gets up the nerve to stand and back away but he’s too slow, a spreader bar is clipped above his knees and spread until they’re shoulder width apart. 

Dean swallows again, darting his eyes between the two men trying to work out what they have planned. They both come towards him at once and Dean sways trying to keep them both in sight. One grabs his ankle and puts a leather cuff around it, linking it to a D-ring strategically placed where his foot rests. The other holds a large black dildo gag to his face. Dean clamps his mouth shut. He hates these. He hates the artificial feel of a plastic cock in his mouth. Face-fucking and cock warming he can handle, but the cold detachment of phallic shaped silicone makes his stomach turn.

Of course he doesn’t get away with it and the end is pushed against his lips relentlessly until he opens. Dean shakes his head as it comes to rest on his tongue, pushed far back into his mouth. The trainer buckles it tightly behind his head and Dean’s blood boils and then cools with icy fear as he realises he can breathe through the gag. It’s hollow. Hollow isn’t good. Hollow means they’re going to make him cry and want to make sure he won’t suffocate.

Dean’s second foot is secured like his first and the trainers step back. Dean is spread, waiting gagged and bound. He’s been here many times before but the clinical efficiency of it weighs heavily every time. Dean struggles to swallow, realises he can’t and panics a little, even though it’s not new. He sinks lower toward the floor wanting to be small, wanting not to be seen.  
“Ah ah, stay up,” the older trainer chastises him, grabbing onto Dean's hair to stop him getting any lower. Dean feels himself turning red but hauls himself back up, straightening his back again.

He walks in front of Dean, making sure he has his attention, taps Dean on the shoulder letting him know he’s allowed to look up - something they taught Dean early on. Dean raises his eyes and tries not to glare at the guy.

“You’ll be on your own this session, we’ll be watching through the cameras,” that throws Dean off guard, what kind of training could be possible by himself? “We’ll still see and hear everything, so try and be on your best behaviour.”

Dean nods reluctantly, glad he can’t speak because he’s not sure he could be polite right now.

“I want you to watch now, so you understand what’s going on.”  
The second man hands the one in charge a mirror helping Dean see behind him to what the other trainer is doing. He steps up behind Dean and reaches between his legs, Dean flinches at the touch which earns him a slap on his ass. It’s stings, but it’s only a reminder to hold still.

Dean watches in mounting trepidation as the man locks a metal ball stretcher around his testes. It’s uncomfortable but not terrible. He sways a little on his knees, struggles to hold his position, before remembering to breathe more again. The trainer produces a chain and Dean moans small and high. Dean flicks his eyes up to the trainer holding the mirror, sees him watching for every reaction.

Dean looks back to watch the chain being attached to the metal ring around his balls and left to dangle there. Dean frowns, looks at the guy above him for some sign of what’s supposed to happen, what he’s supposed to do.

The second trainer appears in front of him and rubs his nipples one at a time, until they are both hard nubs. Dean breathes shallowly, wondering what’s coming, a sick feeling growing in his stomach.  
Clamps are clipped harshly onto his nipples and he gasps, squirms, watches the chain dangling from them.

Before Dean realises he’s gone, the trainer is behind him again and _yanks_ firmly on the chain connected to his sack. Dean yells loud and bright, moves quickly the only way left to him, leans forward as far as he can tilting his ass back to relieve the pressure. Eyes watering he pants and watches in the mirror as the chain is attached to a ring far across the floor behind him.  
Dean whines, realising what that means. If he stops leaning forward the chain will pull taut dragging his balls further back. He can’t let that happen.

The trainer with the mirror steps aside making room, the other walks around, and picks up the chain hanging from his nipples. They already hurt from the dig of the clamps and the movement of the chain sets Dean squirming. It’s a battle to force himself to stop.

The guy lifts the chain until it’s pulled straight, and then pulls a little more until it’s really stretching Dean’s nipples and Dean grunts with it. Chain pulled completely straight, he clips it to a ring on the wall in front of Dean.

Dean starts to pull up immediately, to ease more slack into the chain, but stops short when that yanks his balls horribly. He looks horrified between the two trainers, sweat breaking across his forehead.

“So, now you understand what we’re working with this afternoon,” the older man says, “I want you to really think about what you want to do.”

Dean doesn’t know how to answer that. And he _can’t_ answer that because they’ve fucking gagged him. He grunts and tries to shuffle a little, his upper thighs already aching from holding him knelt and leaning forwards. He tries leaning back with just his upper body, to ease closer to the wall and give his nipples some relief. If he can get closer without moving his lower half, both chains will have enough slack and neither place hurt.

Dean struggles for long seconds but can’t arch his back enough to make it work. He quickly loses his balance and ends up fully straight-backed again to avoid falling sideways and the sudden tug on his sack is intense, makes him whine, scream.

He sobs once, just once, and leans forward again.

“Okay, good choice.” It’s a weird kind of praise and Dean fumes at being told he’s good for reacting to pain. “Just a few more items and you’re ready to go.”

Dean shakes his head vehemently, babbles _no’s_ and _please_ and _don’t._ He doesn’t want any more than this.  
A blindfold is slipped over his eyes, fastened securely behind his head. In the dark he feels increasingly off balance. He twitches, earning himself a twinge of a tug on his nipples as he careens further toward the floor. He shrieks with shock then clamps down on the sound, they can’t know how badly he hates this. If they know, they’ll make it last longer.

Dean feels ropes being looped and knotted around his upper body, a little homemade harness that pulls tight across his chest and is held in place under his arms.

“This will stop you falling over,” he’s told, and feels the ropes tightened out, pulled like puppet strings away from his body. Dean can imagine them being tied off above his head, keeping him in place even if the promise of pain wouldn’t.

Dean moans low in the back of his throat, and hangs his head. He works his tongue against the plastic in his mouth, urgent, desperate for something to give. Saliva pools around the edges of the gag and Dean is almost too distracted - almost - to feel the humiliation as it dribbles past his lips. Knowing he’s being watched and judged, that people see all of this is too much. He’s shaking, twitching his shoulders and arms against the bondage, wanting free and looking for anywhere that something might give.  
He feels the press of a hand to his jaw, tilting his face up. A voice speaks close to his ear.

“Dean listen very carefully, if you can be quiet, if you don’t make any noise for the allotted time then the training will end sooner. But if you’re loud - we’ll make this the length of a full training session.”

Dean stills. He doesn’t know how long a typical training session lasts for, he’s never been told and it seems to change daily anyway. Sometimes it lasts from his morning meal right up until his evening scrub down, other times it seems to be barely an hour and he’ll be left alone again.

“Nod if you understand,”

Dean nods.  
As the last restraints are checked Dean realises he hasn’t been told how long he has to be quiet for. He knows it doesn’t matter, he’ll try anyway and hope it’s enough, but it makes his heart rate pick up - the panic of being uninformed. He stutters through a few breaths, the pull of the clamps becoming unbearable; the fear of more pain in his sack keeps him still. His eyes water with the strain of it. It won’t be the last time they fill with tears. He knows enough now to know his body always gives out eventually, he’ll tremble, fight his bonds, slump down exhausted, and at some point the helplessness and the pain will become all consuming and then tears will spill over and he will sob. He’ll beg behind the gag and think he’d do anything to make it stop.

His face is grabbed again and he’s manhandled into something constricting and stiff that covers his whole head. Some kind of hood with straps that buckle tightly to his scalp, it dulls the sounds around him, makes it hard to hear even his own breath. As if the gag and blindfold aren’t enough.

That’s the last piece and he’s alone.

He shifts one small amount, to check, just reminding himself that he really is held as fast as he knows they’ve bound him. His feet don’t move at all, he can shuffle his knees a small amount but it’s hard with the spreader bar and pointless anyway - there’s nowhere to go.

Slow minutes pass and Dean gasps as, without meaning too, without planning too, he’s straightening up - some instinct to stop the pain burning his chest makes him move. With a jolt he’s upright, his balls stretched mercilessly. He bites down on the plastic filling his mouth hoping he didn’t make a sound. He shakes his head against the tight leather, eyes squeezed shut even though there’s nothing he could see anyway.

This is part of what Dean hates most. The choice. His actions determine which way he’s hurt. It’s crueler making him participate in his own pain, making him complicit in his own deterioration. He knows they watch and measure, taking notes on how he reacts, what he chooses. Seeing which things get to him the most. They’re making a big damn list of all of his most easily opened wounds - so they can break him down more easily.

And it’s working. 

Dean knows he crumbles quicker than before. He always starts with anger and defiance but it bleeds away faster day by day. He thought his pride would dim with it, that he wouldn’t mind begging and reaching for whatever relief they present him with, but he was wrong. He still has his pride, still knows when he’s giving up, he’s just becoming too tired to hold out. So he burns with embarrassment sooner and hates everything more because of it.  
And he notices now that sometimes the roiling anger in his guts each time they begin to manoeuvre him around for a session is only a hair's width away from being a twist of fear.

He doesn’t last long feeling the pinch in his balls before he tilts forward again. His weight is all off balance, his thighs shake and his back aches from keeping himself in place. He knows the ropes around his torso will prevent him slumping over but that will hurt and he isn’t far enough gone to rely on them yet.

Dean breathes. He just breathes. There’s not much else to do.

He realises his eyes are open and hates the blackness, shuts them again before it’s overwhelming. 

There’s a spot, just a notch above uncomfortable, that’s manageable for both his nipples and his balls. He finds it pretty quickly but then loses his balance, wavers and it’s gone. He spends painful long moments trying to find it again, twitching back and forth for the sweet almost-relief it offers. But it’s gone missing somewhere while his legs shake more and soon he can’t hold any position that’s halfway between the two extremes. He either tips forward or he kneels straight, balancing in between is more than his muscles can take.

He doesn’t think he’s made a sound yet apart from some huffs of breath but he feels the groan in his throat growing with every second he doesn’t release it. Dean is panting and knows that’s the first sign he’s going past his limit.

He kneels straight again - face angled to the ceiling because his nipples are screaming pain and he needs his chest not to feel like fire - and the first grunt makes its way out. He feels his throat work more than he hears it.

He’s desperate. Leans forward right away. The sharp tug on his balls will make him cry out again before his chest, that much is obvious. So he leans forward into the tormenting pull on his nipples instead.

But the itching fire across his chest is loud too, like he can hear the sting of it. 

Dean squirms. Knows it must look undignified, it’s also entirely unhelpful. Everything is aching now and Dean has no idea how long it’s been. Is it minutes? Has he been quiet enough for long enough?

A sob escapes. No tears yet just a cry pulled from his throat. Dean wants it over. Wants to know if he’s been good enough. He knows the end of his composure is coming and he doesn’t want to bear it. Doesn’t want to witness it.

When it happens it rolls over him like a wave. 

Dean tugs at everything, wrenching his arms against the sleeve like somehow it might give out and he’ll be free. Twists his torso feeling the cinch of the rope on his chest and then screams as he twists too far and pain explodes behind his dick and across his chest all at once. He blindly rights himself, facing forward again but his body isn’t done, his muscles don’t know it’s over and he’s still wriggling his knees and yanking his feet in the cuffs.

He loses his balance and falls sideways, balls pulled tight behind him and yells and then moans because it’s torture. The pain is spreading down his legs, at least it feels that way; like his entire nervous system must be burning with it. The ropes hold him upright, barely, and Dean struggles against them.

He forces his weight up, centres himself and curls forward, willing his strength to hold him. 

Dean knows he’s letting out a moan with every breath now. He’s powerless to stop it. He’s failed. He wasn’t quiet. He’s angry, and the anger is the last straw that makes the tears come. They roll hotly down his cheeks, trapped behind his mask. And the gag does its job and he can still breath, so it’s still not over.

The dam breaks and he’s sobbing. He hopes it’s quiet. Everything else sounds quiet through the hood making it hard to tell, but he knows it’s probably not.

Dean kneels and waits. He holds each position as long as he can bear. It’s never long enough.  
The pains that start small always become worse, they go on and on, grow until they consume him. He knows this, knows it will happen again tomorrow. 

He runs out of tears a long time before someone comes back to free him. Dean hasn’t been able to swallow in what feels like hours, resigned to spit dripping out of his mouth and running down under the mask, rolling down his chest. There isn’t one part of him that isn’t sweaty or spit covered. There isn’t one part of him that doesn’t ache. 

No matter how much he tries he can’t keep still. Dean wants to give up, hang heavy in the bindings, no position is better than another, but finds he can’t. He keeps moving, switching back and forth between slumped down or arching back but nothing holds. Eventually he’s rocking back and forth at a constant rate, bearing only seconds of each pain before giving in and twitching back or forward to his previous anguish.

He only stops when he feels hands unbuckling the straps around his head. Then the moans he’s been making turn into muffled pleas. An arm steadies him around the shoulders as the mask is pulled free. He begs more, shakes his head. He’s trembling head to foot.

Some slack is suddenly released into the chains on his nipple clamps and he kneels without such a harsh tug. No one speaks and Dean decides to give up begging, they’ll take whatever time they take to release him, he can’t force them to hurry.

Someone rubs a hand through the sweat and saliva slick mess across his chin and chest and Dean cries again because this has happened before and he _can’t_ do this right now.  
The ball stretcher is removed and the relief is instant but hampered immediately by a hand between his shoulder blades pushing him forward. Something slides across his ass, pushing between his cheeks. It’s wet with his sweat, his spit, but not nearly wet enough.

A hand works him open, quick and practiced. Too quick, not enough. Dean is heaving breaths now, begging again - _no no no._ His fluids aren’t enough lube but that doesn’t make a difference. A thin plastic stick is pushed into him, in his weakened delirious state it feels huge. A pole, enormous and unyielding. He knows it isn’t, he’s seen the prostate massager before and knows it’s thin and sleek, but cries out because it feels like being split open.

A hand grabs his cock and Dean has a moment of confusion before a cock ring is placed around it.

Both toys buzz to life and Dean screams. No one has to tell him, he’s existed here long enough. Dean knows he has to come before they’ll let him down. Let him sleep.  
He desperately grasps for the pleasure these things are supposed to bring but it’s too intense, he only feels overwrought, over stimulated and nothing about that gets his dick to stand to attention.

The massager is moved inside him, rocking, rubbing and the ring vibrates harder around him.

By the time he’s able to come Dean can’t hold himself up at all anymore. He can’t even scream through it he’s so far gone. 

“Well done, Dean, you’re done now.” says a disembodied voice that Dean doesn’t care about. The clamps are finally _finally_ removed and Dean grunts at that. Sobs when feeling rushes in, filling the place the numb pinch took up before. He feels the ropes being untangled from around him and he slips lower to the floor without their presence helping hold him up.

The gag is pulled out between his teeth and a plastic cup held in its place. He sips gratefully at the water, drinking eagerly all that he’s given. And then he’s pushed the the floor, legs and arms still tied behind him, his weight leaning on his forehead and abused chest. He hears the clip of his collar being attached to the floor. 

“Someone will be along to feed and shower you soon,” the voice says. Dean nods absently, a few more tears leaking out of his eyes.  
“You did well today.”  
There’s no warmth, utter flatness in the tone, like the person doesn’t care one way or another. Dean doesn’t particularly care anymore either, as long as it’s over.

He waits on the floor, ass raised and knees held apart until his evening meal arrives. His cock and balls hang between his spread legs feeling swollen, sore and aching. Dean tries to shift his position and almost cuts off his air supply, his chest squashed by his own weight and the collar digging into his throat. He whimpers. Hates himself for it. How much longer before it’s over?

He hears the door open and feet approach, a tray clatters down near to his head. The footsteps retreat around him and if Dean had any strength left he’d be tense. He knows this person is looking at him but doesn’t know what will come of it. Sometimes they fuck him just because they can.

A force comes down on his tortured balls with a sickening thwack and Dean howls. Animal-like mewls following as hands caress and squeeze tormentingly.

“These guys had a rough day, huh?”  
Dean tries to reign in the noises he’s making. “Please, stop, I can’t. Please don’t,”

“Come on, let’s get you eating,” the person sighs and the hands disappear.  
His meal is fed to him in pieces while he’s still pressed to the floor. The angle is awkward, makes it hard to swallow and chew but Dean does it. Forces it down without really tasting whatever it is. Feels like mashed potatoes with lumps.

The spreader bad is removed and his ankles uncuffed. Dean tucks his legs under himself, he doesn’t have the strength to get up without help. His arms get untied last, the laces pulling through loops with a swish and he sighs. His hands are brought in front of him and cuffed quickly, metal clicking into place.

Dean is led from the room blindfolded but there’s nothing new to see anyway. White walls, numbered doors. It’s only taken off as they reach the shower room.  
There’s two stalls with showers but no one else is here. He’s given a moment at the small toilet and then brought to the nearest shower and his cuffed hands hooked above his head. Then his orderly, because that’s how he thinks of the people who do this kind of menial task, turns on the water and scrubs him down. 

At first he thought he wasn’t allowed to wash himself because he might take the opportunity to fight back, but Dean realised early on that that’s only part of it. It’s all part of making him helpless, making him take what they give him. They watch his reactions to everything, see how he handles being touched in all manner of ways.  
Dean learned quickly that he can stomach this if it means being clean. So he relishes the water and let’s the guy go to work.

It’s over quickly, the water barely warm enough but it’s the best part of his day. Which isn’t saying much. It soothes his tired limbs a fraction and Dean is almost asleep on his feet by the time they’re done. They give him a pair of thin pants, pyjamas or medical scrubs he can’t tell. It’s a small wonder that he hasn’t had in a few days.

He hopes he gets to sleep tonight. Usually there’s a thin mattress in his room after the shower, occasionally there’s a harness to be strapped into or a bench to be cuffed to and it’s harder to sleep those nights.

He stumbles as he’s guided, still cuffed, back to his door. Dean groans in relief at seeing the mattress before him when the door opens. He’s folded onto it and his hands released. The collar around his neck is still there and a thin lead attaches it to a ring in the floor next to the mattress. It’s not locked, he could unhook it and move himself if he chose to, but he’s learnt by now that’s not a smart move.

The lights click off as Dean is left for the night. He curls into himself, tired of today and already dreading tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Every single idea that I have to write seems to be filthier than the last.
> 
> I plan on this being a series, but with each part being stand alone in its own right. I hope you enjoyed it!  
> I'd love you to come and talk to me in the comments about it, I want to hear all your thoughts!


End file.
